


Dark Moon

by Ataraxxi



Category: League of Legends
Genre: I just want to explore the sad moon boy and write a cool adventure while doing it, M/M, No update schedule cause I’m winging this, Rating May Change, Slow Burn
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-01-29
Updated: 2020-02-11
Packaged: 2021-02-27 12:20:38
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,375
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22463242
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ataraxxi/pseuds/Ataraxxi
Summary: The Aspect of the Moon has gone missing, and without her protection, the Lunari are more vulnerable than ever to persecution by those who worship the sun. Aphelios has been sent to find her, for without her help the Lunari will surely be destroyed.He has picked up leads pointing to Ionia, but these leads are weeks old at best, and he will have to utilize every skill he has learned to find her. How do you find someone who does not wish to be found?You simply have to know who to talk to.
Relationships: Aphelios/Sett (League of Legends)
Comments: 16
Kudos: 107





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Dusting off my writing skills because Aphelios is just such an interesting character to me. The way I interpret him is I think a bit different to how other people do. Being entirely silent himself and only having voice lines through his sister, I think there’s a lot we don’t know about him, the way he thinks and acts, and so he can be interpreted in so many different ways. 
> 
> I guess I just hope you enjoy seeing him through my point of view!
> 
> P.s. no revision no beta we make and leave typos like MEN

The front room of the fighting arena was packed and noisy. It was equal parts tavern, gambling den, and sporting event, and thus it attracted a very particular kind of patron. The place reeked of ale, sweat, and dirt, and Aphelios could taste the tang of blood on the air. The fights had already begun for the night, then.

Aphelios did not blend into the crowd so much as vanish beneath its overbearing mass. He certainly did not fit in. Among this crowd of tall, bulky, half dressed men and women, his slender, well dressed frame wrapped in dark, cool colors would stand out if anyone could be bothered to pay any mind to anything outside of the current match, the wager board, or the drink in their hand. 

The Weapon sidestepped as a tall man with ragged hair and an untrimmed beard shoved by him to get to the door. He watched the man with impassive eyes until the door drifted shut of its own accord once more. Aphelios turned his attention to the board across from the room and began picking his way through the crowd to reach the betting counter. He ducked beneath the swinging arm of a man turning a bit too fast with two flagons of ale clutched in one meaty fist, then straightened up as he came upon the counter.

The woman beyond the barrier was tall, dark skinned, and dark eyed. She had a few inches on Aphelios, and looked down at him with a raised brow. “Here to place a bet, pretty boy?” She asked. 

Aphelios shook his head and roughly signed _fight._ His skill with Ionian sign left a bit to be desired, but she seemed to get the gist, because she immediately burst out laughing, holding her stomach with one arm as she leaned down to his eye level. “Fight, you? Kid, have you seen the competition? They’ll snap you like a twig.”

Aphelios felt irritation prickle at his chest, and at his side his fingers twitched, making a grasping motion. 

_Are you sure this is a good idea, Phel?_ An ethereal voice whispered from somewhere far away. _You’ll be conspicuous. You may anger her._

“Look, kid, pony up some coin or move on, other people have bets to place.”

Aphelios motioned once more, insistent this time.

_If you think this is what is best, brother…_

Aphelios felt the cold weight of one of his moonstone weapons flicker to life in his hand, and by the heavy weight, he knew what his sister had blessed him with. 

Placing his free hand on the top of the counter, he blinked once at the woman, a fair warning, then swung himself up over top of it and brought Gravitum’s heavy barrel around to face her. With a shudder of cold energy, he sent a black globule rocketing into the woman’s gut at point blank range, then felt his stomach drop out from beneath him as he activated its pressure. The woman crumpled to the ground, suddenly pulled by a great weight, and Aphelios hopped nimbly down to place one booted foot atop her chest.

All this happened in a fraction of a moment, and with it the raucous noise of the room snuffed out like a candle in a hurricane. 

The woman looked up at him with shock and indignation, and she spluttered uselessly for a few moments before choking out, “Fuck- bastard- let me up! I’ll have you thrown out for this!” 

Aphelios stepped off her and released Gravitum, sweeping his arms out to the side in an open, peacemaking posture. His weapon faded in an instant as though never there, and the miniature singularity pinning the woman to the floor vanished with it. 

She scrambled to her feet, pushing her unruly tangle of hair back from her face and grabbing Aphelios by his scarf, yanking him up onto his tiptoes. He stared at her, expression cool even as she fumed inches from his face. Curtly, he signed once more. Fight.

With a frustrated growl, the woman released him, shoving him hard back into the counter. “Fine,” she snapped. “I’ll add you to the next card. I like the thought of watching your bony ass get ripped in two. Just one thing before you go,” she said. Aphelios quirked an eyebrow, and because he was looking at her face, he did not see her arm rearing back until her fist hit his face. 

His head snapped sideways with the impact, and he fell sideways, catching himself on the counter at the last moment. His cheek pulsed, though he could not call the sensation pain any more than he could call a match the sun. He knew pain. He was intimately acquainted with it. This minor annoyance could not compare. 

“Get back on the other side of the counter, cocky little shit,” the woman muttered, wiping her knuckles off on her shirt. Aphelios nodded and slid over the counter with ease. Conversation was just starting to grow again, though it kept to a low murmur, eyes all focused on him. He began to walk away when the woman called out to him one last time. 

“I need your name, kid. For the card?” She held out a paper and a slim stick of charcoal. Aphelios returned to her and took the paper from her grasp, looking it over. It was a contract of sorts. Signing it waived any responsibility the ring or its operators might have for the “injury, gross disfigurement, or death of any person or persons participating in the brawl.” Aphelios took the charcoal and scratched his name out in long, curling script and handed both back to her.

She stared at the signature and raised an eyebrow. “Aphelios? That’s not Ionian or Noxian. Where you from, kid?” 

But he was already gone. 

—-

Aphelios found his own way to the staging rooms. Just down a hallway was a door guarded by a burly Noxian man who stopped Aphelios when he tried to go through. “Competitors only,” he said gruffly. 

Aphelios signed _Fight_ once more, but the bouncer merely frowned at him, raising one eyebrow. 

“That supposed to be a rude gesture or something?” He asked, already seeming to bristle from the implication that would have.

Aphelios sighed. Of course a Noxian would not know Ionian sign. He shook his head, then pointed to his own chest, made a fist, and swung it in a vague punching motion. The Noxian’s eyebrows drew downward and he squinted at Aphelios’s hands, then back to his face. 

“Don’t you speak, beanpole?” He didn’t catch on. 

Aphelios closed his eyes, counted to five, then opened them again. The Noxian was still leaning down into his space, staring at him quizzically. Again, more slowly this time, he pointed to himself, then stepped back into a fight-ready stance, light on the balls of his feet and fists raised.

Finally, like a light had been switched on, realization dawned on the Noxian’s features. “Oh! You’re a competitor. Well why didn’t you just say so!” He pulled the door open and stepped aside to let Aphelios through. As Aphelios passed, he heard the man mutter “You don’t _look_ very strong,” and then the door shut behind him. 

The staging rom was worlds different from the front room. Here the air was cool, free from the hot press of bodies on all sides. It still smelled of sweat, and even more strongly of blood, but it was only dimly lit by oil burning lamps in sconces periodically placed throughout the room. The sounds of laughter, yelling, bets being placed could still be heard through the closed door, though muffled. 

There were a few other combatants in the room already, polishing their weapons and armor, making gruff, monosyllabic conversation. One caught his eye, however. She was younger than anyone else in the room save him by at least a decade, and her hair was a stark white, ragged, and pulled back into a high ponytail. The woman wore little armor, and was currently drawing a whetstone across a peculiar looking weapon. 

It’s handle was long and wrapped in worn leather, with a crossbar longer than his forearm, and the blade that extended out from the hilt was a strange shape, squat and wide, with a jagged edge at the top. It’s flat sides were inscribed with markings- runes of some kind, though he did not recognize their origin or purpose. A few moments later, he realized why it looked so odd. 

The weapon must have been a massive blade at one point, now snapped off a few feet past the crossbar of the hilt. The woman looked up and caught him staring. She locked eyes with him. Her eyes were green and intense; Aphelios could recognize the calculating gaze of a hardened warrior sizing up an opponent. A breath later, she returned to her work, eyes on her blade. “Your nose is bleeding,” she said flatly. 

Aphelios lifted a hand to his face and touched his upper lip. His fingers came away smeared with red. He hadn’t noticed, but the punch he’d taken earlier must have gotten his nose, too. Finer sensations like the feeling of wetness on his face were dulled when he took the poison, so he never realized. 

His sister’s voice came to him. _You should not have angered that woman, brother._

Aphelios brushed off her admonition with a roll of his eyes. He turned and picked out a bench near a set of lockers and reclined against the wall, arms crossed over his chest, waiting to be called. Idly, he wiped the blood from his face and then turned his hand in the dim light. It was difficult to see the red stains against the black silk of his gloves. 

_I do not like seeing you hurt, Phel. You should not provoke violence where you can avoid it._

He ground one heel into the dirt floor and pushed an apologetic sensation across the bond they shared. He didn’t like worrying her, but also didn’t have much room for self preservation when on a mission. He would do what got the job done. He caught that thought and held it back from crossing the threshold of their shared mind. She’d be even more worried if she knew that was how he thought. 

Some time later, a door across the way crashed open and a woman with a bright pink shock of hair atop her head came stumbling through, laughter and blood on her lips. Her left eye was already beginning to swell shut, and a split eyebrow trickled red down the side of her face. Raucous applause followed her through the door until it shut and cut off the noise once more. 

The woman passed Aphelios without sparing him a glance, boasting loudly about her victory as she removed a nasty pair of brass knuckles from her fists and went to a washbasin in the corner. Aphelios watched as she splashed water into her face, the runoff staining the water red, then looked up as he heard his name called. 

“-and Aphelios… You two’re up next,” a man read off from the list, then frowned. “Huh. Never seen your name before. Usually we don’t put new blood up against the defending champion,” he looked up and grinned apologetically at Aphelios. He was missing a few teeth. Judging by his his crooked nose, which must have been broken and badly healed, they had most likely been punched out. 

The white haired woman from before put away her whetstone and stood. She strode over to the closed door to the arena and waited there, an air of certainty about her if not confidence. 

Aphelios stood and straightened out his clothing. Remembering the woman behind the counter he removed his scarf, folded it a few times, and set it neatly on the bench where he’d been sitting. He followed his opponent and they faced one another, flanking the door the previous combatant had come out of. Briefly Aphelios wondered if he should be worried that the loser of the fight hadn’t come out the same way. The white haired woman held her hand out to him, and after a moment he took it. Her handshake was firm. “Good luck,” she said, and Aphelios could swear he saw a hint of regret in her eyes. 

“Defending champion enters first and stands on the Boss’s side of the ring, challenger with the crowd,” the man explained more for Aphelios than his opponent. “Fight goes til one of you can’t move any more whether by incapacitation or death, or until someone surrenders. Got it?” 

Aphelios nodded his understanding.

“Then off you go,” he said, opening the door once more. 

The white haired woman stepped out and walked across the arena, back ramrod straight, broken sword held easily at her side. Aphelios could already hear the crowd riling up. Over it all, an announcer’s voice echoed loudly, amplified by an enchantment of some kind. 

“This match ought to be a surprise! On the side of the house, we have a familiar face, victor of a hundred battles, basher-in of a hundred skulls, reigning champion of the pits two weeks running, Riven!” The crowd exploded with cheers, jeers, and applause. Over the top of it all Aphelios picked out a shrill voice scream _I love you Riven!_ The woman in question reached her place and turned neatly on her heels, shoulders squared, until she faced the opposite end of the arena. 

The man nudged Aphelios’ shoulder and nodded. “Now you.”

Aphelios lifted his chin and glided forward himself, hands at ease at his sides, looking for all anyone in the crowd knew like an unarmed noble that had somehow wandered in here unattended and intending to fight. His gaze was cold, scanning his opponent and then casting about to take in the arena. 

It was perhaps fifty feet in diameter, circular, with a dirt floor and racks of weapons placed on the four points of the compass and at the very center. It was ringed in by a wooden wall ten feet high, and beyond that began row upon row of bleachers, packed cheek by jowl with rowdy onlookers. 

“And her opponent, silent, mysterious, completely untested new-blood, Aphelios!” The cheers and applause turned quickly to laughter and booing. She was a favorite it seemed, and he was here to upend that. No doubt they all expected her to mop the floor with him. That fit his agenda perfectly. He needed to be noticed. Defeating their champion as an unheard of newcomer would do just that. 

He locked eyes with Riven once more, then his gaze slid upward, beyond the top of the wall, beyond the bleachers, to a box at the very top of the room, flanked by guards and draped with maroon silks. Within it was a makeshift throne, clearly out of place among the rough-hewn construction of the pit, and on it, cradling the waist of a beautiful woman in tight, revealing silks, _he_ sat. The Boss. The man with the information Aphelios needed, or failing that, the means to obtain it. 

Sett. 

A countdown began and Aphelios’s attention immediately crashed back to the matter at hand. If he could not prove himself here, getting to the Boss would be significantly more difficult. 

“Three!”

Aphelios held his hand out to his side and grasped at air, feeling it solidify beneath his fingers. 

“Two!”

_Be careful, Phel. Strike true._

“One!” 

Severum’s curved sickle shimmered into his hand, already thrumming with the magic of the moon. His sister’s magic. 

“Fight!”

Aphelios rocked back on his heels and began.


	2. Chapter Two

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Back an indeterminate amount of time later with more chapters! And fighting! Fighting is cool kids. Don’t try this at home.

To Riven’s credit, she did not rush Aphelios the moment the fight began. He was sure a more cocksure combatant would have, assuming him as weak as he looked. Instead, she circled the perimeter of the ring, light on her feet, balance impeccable, sizing him up as he did the same to her. 

It was no wonder she had held the title of champion. Aphelios watched her closely, battlefield in almost painfully sharp focus with the hum of moonlight in his mind, and recognized the moment she was about to strike from the smallest signs- her eyes flickering to his face, a slight shift in the placement of her weight on her feet, her grip on her blade tightening just slightly. 

Aphelios did not respond immediately when she charged him. He waited, breath bleeding slowly out through his nose, until she was nearly upon him. When she leapt, bringing her broken blade around in a wide overhead arc, he lunged not away but forward, tucking into a roll and sweeping Severum above him. He felt the blade connect, and when he sprang to his feet on the other side and whipped around, he could see a small cut on her left calf.

Riven rushed him and caught him before he could respond this time, slamming the flat of her weapon into his face. His vision flashed white as he reeled from the blow, and for a moment, the only thing he was aware of was his sister’s voice calling his name, tight with worry. When his vision cleared, she’d already grabbed him by the collar of his shirt and brought his face down into her knee. He heard his already battered nose crunch painfully. The crowd roared with approval as he wrested himself from her grip, leaping backwards and placing as much distance between her and himself as he could manage.

For wielding such a bulky weapon, she was faster than he gave her credit for. This was not a fight he could win at close quarters. 

Aphelios brushed Severum away and held both arms out before him. In moments, Calibrum materialized in his grasp. He fired off three quick shots, two of which flew wide and pelted into the dirt behind Riven. The third seared into her upper thigh, and he saw the leg of her breeches hiss with the impact of concentrated moonlight. The crowd gasped, and an audible _ooo_ swept through the bleachers. 

The wound did not seem to slow her at all, and he had to turn and run full pelt as she vaulted over the weapon rack in the middle of the room to get to him, coming away with a spear clutched in her free hand. 

Riven gave a grunt of effort, and a moment later a spear cut through the air just in front of Aphelios to bury itself in the wooden wall of the ring, and he dropped to his knees, letting his momentum carry him sliding beneath it. He rolled to his feet, whipped around, and steadied his aim even as she bore down upon him. He fired off another shot, this one catching a glancing blow to the side of her ribs, and still she came on. She leapt up, using the spear in the wall as a stepping stone to gain extra height, and came down upon him once more with another heavy overhead strike. He dove forward once more, managing to avoid the blade once again, but not the foot that followed swiftly behind. 

With all the momentum from the jump, the kick sent him sprawling several feet away, kicking up dirt in his path. The arena spun above him. For a moment, he could swear he saw Alune’s silhouette in the rafters, way up there in the darkness. She looked worried. 

He shook himself and rolled to his feet just in time to avoid another wide arc of Riven’s blade, and skittered back a few yards as her momentum continued to carry her in the direction of her swing. 

_You need to keep her away from you, brother. She can run too fast. You must weigh her down._

Aphelios nodded and felt Calibrum slip away from him and Gravitum’s weight settle into his arms once more. It thrummed with enthusiasm in time with his racing heartbeat and he stared Riven down as she came at him once more. He fired off three quick shots directly into her, and the black globules of dark energy collected on her chest and clung there like sap leaking from a tree. 

He felt the deep, bassy thump of energy resound as he activated the enhanced gravity of the orbs and watched with satisfaction as she was brought to her knees. Alune pushed Calibrum back into his arms, returning Gravitum to the arsenal, and Aphelios took advantage of his immobile target to riddle her with bullets of pure energy.

Without Gravitum’s present energy, the dark orbs faded after a few moments, and Aphelios slid backward on light feet in anticipation of another onslaught. Riven dug the tip of her blade into the ground and leaned heavily as she stood. All over her, he could see dark purple welts beginning to form where the bullets of force had impacted her. He slowed his retreat, noting her sluggish movements. 

His head tilted slightly and he peered beneath her bangs to meet her eyes, and then he understood. Her eyes were glazed over. She was moving more on instinct and muscle memory now than anything else. She was done.

Aphelios cleared his mind in the space of a breath, letting Calibrum return to his sister once more, and he stood there, arms empty waiting. Riven started into another charge, this one with all the force and none of the agility she had shown before. At the last moment, Aphelios slid to the side, grabbed the back of her shirt, and used her own momentum to carry her downward. Like mounting a horse, he swung his leg up and around and applied his full weight to her back, driving her face first into the dirt. He pressed one hand at the nape of her neck and a knee to her back and held her there until her struggling ceased. 

A few moments passed. She did not move any longer. Brows furrowing, Aphelios slid a few fingers alongside her neck. A pulse. She still lived. That was good. He did not want to kill any more than was necessary. 

Aphelios stood smoothly, the throbbing of his wounds and bruises dull beneath the bright, clear pain of the poison singing in his veins, and he turned to face the crowd, the Boss. The roar of the audience competed for attention with the thumping pulse in his ears, but all of it faded away when his eyes found the half-vastayan still up in his box. 

He was leaning forward now, elbow on his knee, the woman on his lap seemingly forgotten. The uncanny clarity his poison-trance gave him brought the Boss’s bright amber eyes into sharp focus even at this distance. His pupils were blown wide, and Aphelios swore he could see one corner of his mouth twitching slightly upward. 

Aphelios dropped his arms to his sides and bowed severely, hinged at the waist, until his upper body was parallel with the floor. Sound came back to him in a rush just in time for the arena to fall deafeningly silent. He looked up, still bent forward slightly, to see that the Boss had stood. 

Slowly, Aphelios straightened himself up, tracking the Boss’s movements as he descended from the box down a set of stairs through the bleachers right to the edge of the arena. A collective gasp rang throughout the gathered onlookers as he swung himself over the safety railing there and dropped to the floor in a perfect three-point landing. 

Show off. 

The Boss stood easily and sauntered across the battlefield with a confidence that bordered on arrogance, and as he approached Aphelios realized what he hadn’t noticed when the man was far away and sitting down. He was huge. While Aphelios was slender, built for speed more than strength, he was not a short man by any means. Sett stood a full head taller than Aphelios, and twice as broad, his muscular shoulders emphasized by the thick fur spilling out of the collar of his vest. Through the vest’s open front, the muscles of his chest and stomach gleamed as though oiled, and a silky trail of red hair led from his belly button to-

Aphelios shook himself out of that thought and refocused his gaze back on the man’s face. This was no time for wandering fantasies. 

“You beat my champion,” the Boss said. 

Aphelios nodded. 

“On your first night here. Your first _fight_ here.”

He confirmed again. 

“Who are you, mysterious stranger?” The Boss asked, the epithet pulling a lazy grin across his face. His teeth were sharp and white. Aphelios sighed, gave him a pointed look. “Right, right, I know your name, but who _are_ you? Where you from? What d’you want? You’ve piqued my interest.” 

Aphelios glanced up toward the box, then back to the Boss. He seemed to catch on. “Not much one for talking, eh? I can respect that.” He leaned back on his heels, rolled his shoulders, then flashed a wolffish grin. “Tell you what. You can have a private, personal appointment with the Boss himself if you can last two minutes in the ring with me, no weapons. You don’t even have to win! Just stay awake and alive. Two minutes.” He held up two fingers, head tilted, bangs falling charmingly across his face. His furred ears, standing at attention and turned in Aphelios’s direction, were the only tells to his anticipation. 

Aphelios frowned. He had trained in unarmed combat, but without his arsenal of moonstone weapons provided by his sister, he would feel naked. Exposed. 

_You don’t have to do this, Phel. There will be other ways._

“I can understand if you’re scared. Those guns looked real fancy. There’s no shame if you can’t last without ‘em.”

Aphelios brushed his sister’s voice off. He nodded. 

“Now that’s what I like to hear. Er, see,” the Boss grinned. “You can call me Sett. That is, if you ever decide to say anything at all.” Sett turned to the room’s lone exit, which now stood open with the same man from before hovering uncertainly beside it. “Darro, get this guy a healer, on the house. I want him in top shape for the fight with me.” He turned his golden gaze back on Aphelios, smug. “Can’t say I don’t fight fair,” he shrugged. 

The crowd roared its approval. It had clearly been some time since the Boss himself had last fought someone. Sett took a running start at the wall, leapt, and easily pulled himself back up over the railing once more. “What do you say we have one more fight before the _real_ main event?” Sett shouted, arms spread wide. The crowd went nearly rabid. Aphelios rolled his eyes. 

_Definitely_ a show off. 

The man from before, Darro, ushered Aphelios out of the hot light of the arena and back into the cool staging room. “C’mon, lets get you patched up,” he said, watching Aphelios out of the corner of one eye. Aphelios could swear he heard pity in his voice. 

—-

The healer was a young vastayan woman with kind eyes that couldn’t quite conceal their exhaustion. Not so much the kind that sleep could rectify. The kind of tiredness only someone doggedly committed to surviving in a world that did not want her to thrive could have. 

“Now hold still,” she said softly, biting her lip as she held her hands, palms flat, an inch away from his badly broken nose. Aphelios could feel a shiver run through him as magic was drawn from the aether surrounding them, collecting and cloaking her hands in a warm green light. The light then flowed into him, and he felt a warmth spill across his face like sunlight. Their energies connected as she eased into him to knit his broken pieces back together, when she suddenly pulled away with a gasp, the warmth vanishing and leaving only icy absence behind. 

“You are poisoned,” she said. “I can feel it. It is terrible and cold,” she visibly shuddered then reached out again. “Let me heal that too-“ 

Aphelios’s hand snatched her wrist up in an iron grip before she could finish her sentence and she yelped. He shook his head firmly. 

“But it is hurting you,” she protested. “You couldn’t possibly fi-“ she cut off with another whimper as he tightened his grip on her wrist and shook his head again. Tears gathered in her eyes, but Aphelios was able to push his guilt to the back. Behind the job, behind the pain, behind it all. If she drained the poison from him, _that_ would make it impossible for him to fight. 

Drawn by the healer’s cries, Darro rushed over, grabbing Aphelios by the arm and yanking him away. Aphelios relinquished his grip and looked impassively up to him. Darro scowled. “That’s enough of that. The Boss offered you a healer. He didn’t say you could do what you wanted with her.” Aphelios shrugged and stood. He still ached in places, but that would not affect him. He started toward the door to the ring again. Darro let him go. 

“Be a few more minutes til the current fight’s over. You should sit,” Darro called after him. But Aphelios was restless now. So close to his goal. Just last two minutes with the Boss, unarmed, and he would have access to all the information the criminal underbelly of Ionia had. How bad could it be? He stood by the door, arms tucked behind his back, watching it but forcing himself to remain still, even while his legs itched to run, and his hands ached for the handle of one of his guns. 

A few minutes later, the victor of the current match came through the door, followed promptly by the loser carried on a stretcher by two gruff lackeys. They hardly cleared the doorway before Aphelios was through it again, eyes already scanning the bleachers. The box was empty. Down at the safety railing, Sett already stood. 

He had changed. Of course he had. No reason to get his fine clothing dirty. Now he wore a simple white linen shirt and dark pants, his shiny golden boots replaced with a pair made of worn black leather. His fists were wrapped neatly with the sort of supportive cloth ribbons that Aphelios had seen on boxers before. He swung himself over the partition and landed as though he himself were weightless, though the cloud of dust his impact kicked up indicated otherwise, then began to walk toward the center of the ring. Aphelios went to meet him. 

The air was heavy and quiet. At the center of the ring, a foot away from Sett, Aphelios had to tilt his head back to meet his gaze. He could hear his own breath, as well as Sett’s. Now Sett’s ears were pressed tightly back against his head. He bared his teeth, and Aphelios wasn’t sure if the expression was meant to be friendly or a threat. Sett, paradoxically, somehow made it both at once. 

Sett held his hand up between the two of them, open, expectantly. Aphelios took it, closing his fingers around it and squeezing as tightly as possible. Sett reciprocated, and Aphelios felt the bones of his hand grind painfully together with the power in that grip. “You got spunk, kid,” Sett breathed, only loud enough for Aphelios to hear. “I like that. Hope I don’t concuss you too hard.”

Aphelios could only answer with a nod. Without any cue, they released one another simultaneously, then each took a step back. Sett raised his his arms up before him, fingers curled loosely, and settled back into a ready position. Aphelios copied him, turning his left shoulder closer to Sett, stepping his right leg back. He opened his senses, let it all in. The grit of the sand beneath his boots, the subtle sounds of an anxious audience, the emptiness in his hands. His sister’s cool light at his back. 

The countdown commenced. Aphelios watched Sett’s feet, where he placed his weight, waiting for a shift in balance that would indicate a coming strike. 

He could not anticipate that strike coming quite as quickly as it did.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For real never written combat before so I hope it reads alright. Too boring? Too confusing? A slog to read through? Let me know! Slapping this all out is as much for improvement and practice as it is for fun. And finally our boys talk to one another! Sort of. 
> 
> Excited to write next chapter too, so hopefully that one will be out in a jiffy.

**Author's Note:**

> Not really committing to an update schedule here because I’m just flying by the seat of my pants with this and seeing where it takes me. Hopefully somewhere fun!
> 
> You can follow me on twitter as @AtaraxxiArt for update notifs and all that if you want. I also draw art there, so give me a follow if you’re interested!


End file.
